It's 7 am and you wake up with coffee. A book about life after winter rests on the table, its pages filled with words you underlined when you were someone else. Like clockwork, winter ends in your mind before it actually has, and the book reminds you of warmth that isn't here yet. Of Washington Square Park benches, green or brown—it's been so long you can't remember. Of Parisian cemeteries lined with budding pink roses, the only pop of color under a bone-white sky. All around you, gold, linen, lace—things that lance the senses with something like a flame or its light living under the skin. The tree outside your window is still empty; when its leaves bloom again, the light will have trouble getting in.
It's 5 pm and you're leading a quiet life, whether or not you meant to. In March we remember that soon we won't be cold, and the cold that remains becomes unbearable.
